The Fallen Apple
by xTie on Wings
Summary: Bent or broken is the family tree. Each branch a part of a part of me. This is my tree, and it's a big ol' tree. -Rain Perry. Follow the return of Fiona and Michaels long lost son. Post 7x02.
1. Home

**Summary:** Three years post 7x02 Michael Westen returns to Miami with only one thing on his mind, Fiona. But he's not the only one coming home. AU.

**Author's Note:** To be honest, this story was a little outside my comfort zone because the complexity of the characters but once I get an idea in my head, I need to write it. Enjoy and be sure to review if you want me to continue.

**Need to Knows: Read before starting the story!**

-This is set four years after 7x02's scene where Fiona kissed Michael's cheek.  
-When Michael McBride left Ireland, he left behind a pregnant, betrayed Fiona who was forced to give up her son by her father once he found out that Michael was an American.  
-Fiona never told Michael about his son knowing there was nothing either one of them could do about it.  
-Michael's just completed his mission and is set to return home (he never enlisted the help of Sam and Jesse)

_.- -" "- -._

(… .(_\.../_)… )

{ _"...=-... }_ _ _ _{.. .-=..."_}

xTie on Wings  
presents  
The Fallen Apple  
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction

{_.."… … … … … … …""(_}

**_Chapter One: Coming Home_**

_"I'm coming home._  
_I'm coming home._  
_Tell the world I'm coming home." _

_-Dirty Money_

Home is defined as any place of residence, shelter, or refuge of a person, family, or household but there so much more to it than that. After finally completing almost four years of deep a deep cover mission, they are sending Michael Westen "home." He is going back to Miami but going back isn't the same as going home, he realizes as he stares down at the tarmac through the airplane's window, landing imminent. Sure, he was born here, raised here, spent most of his life here but definition be damned, this isn't his home.

No, for Michael Weston, home will always be a trigger-happy Irish bombshell that can cause chaos with the mere flicker of one of her breathtaking smiles. But home closed its doors to him the same time he'd made his deal with the devil- the US government- and that's something that he has regretted ever since. The notable jerk of wheels landing shakes Michael from his musings and steely blue-gray flickers down to the amber liquid sloshing around in the culvert of his glass.

"Bottoms up," he mutters as he downs the rest of its content readying himself to face the millions of things that would constantly try to tell him he was home.

[xXx]

A thumping ache pulls at the darkest corners of his consciousness pushing him closer to alertness. Slowly, heavy lids flutter open, his surroundings a blur until several blinks later. Upon these blinks, he takes in the deep orange sunlight arced across the sky that bathes the ocean with a mirrored glow.

_Sunrise_. Though there are days you cannot see it, it's a constant in this world. The sun always rises. It's inevitable but, for the boy, it is something he never thought he'd see again. Taking in the sunrise, relief floods through him, sweet and empowering and suddenly everything is possible, if only for a moment. But as he tries to climb out of the small row boat onto the dock, the high of relief is replaced by a sharp reminder of why he never thought he would see the sun again.

Looking down at the area of discomfort, he notices the crimson stains bleeding through the fabric of his white t-shirt. Last night's nightmare becomes today's reality as he gently pulls at the fabric, lifting it to find the wound has bled through the thick gauze bandage that covers from his fifth rib to just below his pectoral muscle.

"Ah, bloody hell," he curses through gritted teeth, the amount of pain the simple task of climbing out of the boat and onto the dock causes alarming.

If he is going to live to see another sunrise, he needs help. Fast.

[xXx]

Madeline Westen is dragged from a deep slumber by an incessant knock, knock, knocking at her door. A gruff groan is expelled into the air as she silently curses whomever it is that has woken her up so early. Pulling the sheets to the side, legs that feel like the bones within are made of lead dangle from the side of the bed as she tries to get the rest of her fatigued body to awaken.

"Alright, alright. I'm coming," she shouts, her patience wearing thin with their rudeness.

Getting to her feet, Madeline shuffles out of the bedroom and out past the kitchen and into the solarium, the carpet beneath her feet soothing as she moves to answer the door. Living with her son and his colorful enemies has taught her a thing or two. Her eye narrows as it looks through the peephole but only sees the dirty blond mop of hair atop a hung head.

"Whataya want?" she questions not opening the door.

It takes a moment for the boy on the other side of the door to answer but when he does his voice is thick with pain and impatience. "Please, open the God damn door."

"I'm not opening this door until you tell me who you are," she says leaving the door to grab her 12 gauge shotgun and returning with it firmly pointed at the door.

"I'm Thatcher O'Connor," he admits with a long pause before adding, "but I suppose, if it'll help speed this along, you can call me your grandson."

Grandson. The claim is not only enough to get her to lower the shotgun but peer through the peephole once more and with a bit of a struggle, the alleged grandson lifts his head and looks directly at her. Instantly pictures of Fiona and Michael swirl around in her head making connections and tethers of resemblance. He has his father's height, athletic build, piercing blue eyes, and angular features; and judging by the shape of his nose, lips, chin, and Irish accent, it didn't take a genius to guess who the boy's mother could be.

Any hesitancy she had in regards to letting the boy in is abolished instantaneously. She twists the lock of the deadbolt and the lock of the handle with youth-like speed and she throws the door open so quickly she displaces the weight Thatcher has against it, causing him to stumble forward into the older woman's arms. His body is trembling, sweat dripping from his overheated skin causing alarm bells to ring in her head.

"Oh my God," she gasps as he pushes off to reveal the crimson stain engulfing the left side of his white tee, a stark contrast. "We have to get you to the hospital."

"No," he adamantly replies before gaining some semblance of composure. "No hospitals."

[xXx]

Fiona Glenanne leans casually against the railing of the dock with her eyes on the water and her mind clearly elsewhere. Today marks the seventh day since Madeline not so casually pointed out that Michael was getting debriefed and would return to Miami in a week; it also marks the millionth time this week her mind wanders towards him. In that sense, she is like the foamy white caps of the waves she watches. She is perched precariously on the top of the turmoil that is her life and the more she thinks about Michael, the more likely she'll be to drown beneath the powerful waves.

So caught up in thought, she doesn't hear her boyfriend of nearly four years sneak up behind her. Muscular arms slip around her waist from behind as Carlos gently rests his chin on her collar bone, a warm gesture that took her awhile to get used to- the first time she thought he was a threat and flipped him over her shoulder. She shutters as his lips traipse down his neck, the last one lingering on the crook of her neck.

"Hey, baby," he whispers softly, "trouble sleeping?"

It is not that she didn't love Carlos because she does… more than she ever thought she was capable of but Michael Weston has a piece of her no other man can touch. Their history, their past, and their love- it is undeniable. Though she is trying and will keep resisting it with every ounce of her being.

"Yeah, the storm last night kept me up," she offhandedly offers, an effortlessness in her tone that nobody should question if they don't know her. But he does. He knows she grew up in a warzone, knows she can sleep through a hurricane but he doesn't fight her on it. It is one of the reasons they get along so effortlessly. He knows better than to demand an explanation or push when he knows she doesn't want to be. But that doesn't mean that he won't hint at the elephant in the room.

"And you're sure you're not worried about the return of the prodigal ex?" he says, his tone teasing despite a slight concern he felt.

Sometimes she wishes he didn't know her so well. Moments like now but Fiona is a master of deception… even to herself. Turning to him, a feinting glance of oblivious dances across her features like she doesn't know who he was talking about. "Who?" she asks, a small smile tugging at the edge of her features as she drapes her arms around his neck before moving onto reassure. "I'll always care about Michael but I love _you_."

Her lips press gently to his as assurance and brings a smile to his face, as he naughtily suggests, "How about you come back to bed and show me just how much?"

She gives her lip a slight bite and the word yes dances on the tip of her tongue but before she can voice her agreement, a ringing filtered through the air emanating from the pocket of her jeans. She wants so badly to ignore the call, have Carlos take her upstairs, and forget what day it is but she didn't live a life where there was a choice of letting it go to voicemail. Sliding her thumb across the screen she unlocks her iPhone and answers, "Madeline, hi."

"You need to get here right now, Fi," Madeline orders, no room for objection conveyed in her tone.

"Alright," Fiona agrees before adding, "Is everything okay?"

"Well a kid with an Irish accent is in my living room, calling me grandma, and bleeding all over my house, so I'd say no. Everything is not okay."

Irish accent. Grandma. No. It isn't possible. Is it? A powerful emotional flood hits; a deafening tornado strikes. It doesn't matter that she is unprepared. It crushes and flattens everything in its wake just the same. Not that anyone can tell. Her lungs absorb the flood and her heart encircles the tornado. She keeps it all contained within because that's what she does best lately. Practice makes perfect. There's been a storm permanently raging inside her for years. She has a million questions, but it all has to wait.

"I'll be right there."

[xXx]

Up the steps of the porch, Fiona sprints and reaches for the handle of the door but instead of barging in, Fiona finds herself knocking on the door until Madeline answers.

"Hi," she says.

Fiona knows there is something better than a simple hi. Something is more appropriate for this situation. Something along the lines of "I'm sorry for not telling you about your grandson for all these years." But, only that inadequate hi comes out. Biting her lower lip a moment, as she attempts to obtain some form of composure then fights to add more, "I know you must have a lot of questions."

"You're damn right I do," the obviously frazzled woman bursts but stops herself before she can really lay into Fiona. "But, right now, your son needs your help. Thatcher's in the bathroom."

[xXx]

Despite his best attempts to suffer in silence, a colorful barrage of cuss words slips out reverberating off the tile of the bathroom. With such ragged, deep lacerations, resistance was futile but he tries none the less by taking a rough swig of the Jack Daniels he used to sterilize the wound before beginning the life or death process of stitching it up. Each bite of the needle feels worse than the initial shrapnel collision but stopping isn't an option. The risk of bleeding out is too great.

And though, he's in his own personal hell, he isn't dead yet.

Taking the needle, he braces himself for another pierce but before he can Thatcher hears another voice outside the bathroom door. Fear sinks through him like a cold marble- working its way down into the pit of his stomach where it leaves a dull sickness relentless in its nature. He knew the risks of coming to Madeline's house- knew that there was a distinct possibility that he'd run into one of them- but blood loss and desperation had painted him into the corner and all he could do was wish for the best… the best? All he's ever gotten was the worst. He should've known better.

With the turn of the knob, the ghost that has haunted him his entire life is caught in the reflection of the mirror his eyes are glued onto. He takes her in like a breath: the long, wavy, chocolate locks cascading down to her back, engaging smile, his nose, his chin, his mouth. He hates this woman, loathes the very breath she takes. So why does he feel like this? Why does the very sight of her freeze the air in his lungs leaving him waiting to exhale? What is wrong with him?

'Nothing' he immediately decides. 'It's just nature- a kinship anyone would feel when looking at the woman that gave them life.'

"Aw fuck," he hisses, turning to face her. "I must've died and gone to hell because I'm looking at the devil."

There's an unyielding hatred ravishing his very soul and she can sense it. Tears burn brightly in her eyes as she meets his piercing blue ones that bear a striking resemblance to Michael's. She never knew words can make her hurt like this, bleed like this. It not only tears at her heart strings but severs them completely. She inhales the words letter by letter sticking to her lungs until she can't breathe.

How is she supposed to respond?

No one has invented words for a moment like this. Not one sound that can articulate her affection. Excruciating pain. Not one movement that can act out her yearning. Years of longing to see his face. Not one sentiment that can express her regret. Infinite remorse. There's a coldness, a cruelty to his stance. Like he snuck into the lair of his enemy fully loaded to battle his nemesis. But, when have they become adversaries? She wants to take him into her arms and tell him they are on the same side. They are family. But she finds herself frozen by the iciness of his stare.

They stand in a standoff weary of each other until he shifts back against the wall; the action is designed to look disrespectful, but it is more out of unbearable pain and his inability to stand upright. Then, immediately any form of fear and hesitancy is over-ridden by a maternal instinct. She's by his side before he can slip to the floor guiding him down.

"Let me go," he roars, the Jack Daniels on his breath fueling his anger. "You did it once. Shouldn't be hard to do again."

"You couldn't be more wrong."

It just comes out. Fiona doesn't even have to think about it. Natural. Automatic. The only meaningful reaction is the admission that she misses him. That she'd missed him all these years. It's the first words she'd said and they tear at him capturing his heart in an icy vice but it isn't just the words wearing away at him. His wound has started bleeding again and the few spots he'd started stitching have come undone. Darkness pulls at the edges of his consciousness and he slips under its hold before either knows what hit him.

"Thatcher?" she questions checking his pulse. At its weakness, she frowns and desperation takes hold. "Stay with me."

She's not demanding but begging. Begging for him to survive; she has just found him and won't lose him now. It becomes a mantra as she pleads with him, letting the tears that burned brightly in her eyes the entire time slip down her cheeks. She takes the needle and string from his closed hand knowing that he can't afford to lose any more blood.

She has to be strong, composed.  
No amount of tears are going to stop the bleeding.

The string, the flimsy piece of string whose importance has become unequivocal, slides through the needle and Fiona gets to work. The hard part is done and now she is robotic in her movements. Pinch, insert needle, pull. Stay with me. She watches her hands, no longer shaking, work thoroughly and efficiently to close the wound and when the final stitch is in, she gently traipse her fingers across her handiwork. The last time she held him in her arms, he was a perfectly healthy tiny cherub with ten fingers and ten toes and the adoptive parents whose care she left him in swore he'd always stay that way. But something stopped them from keeping their promise and as a result she'd failed in the one task every mother has. Protect their child.

"I'm sorry," she whispers closing her eyes as the tears flowed freely. "God, I'm so sorry."

[xXx]

Jessie maneuvers through the doorway with the boy strewn across his arms cradled to his chest, trying his best not to jar him. Given his hard muscled form and long legs though, it proves to be difficult. How he's gotten tied up in this mess, he isn't entirely sure but he'd do anything for the people he's come to call his family, including moving the prodigal son from the hard surface of the bathroom floor to the comforts of the plush couch in the solarium.

He's managed to clear the door and got up to the couch without a hitch, but as he tries to put him down, he inadvertently puts too much pressure on the stitches gaining a reaction from Thatcher. Glazed blue eyes stare at him in a harsh squint reminding him of Michael when he was assessing a situation. In a rough voice thick with sleep, Thatcher slurs, "…Hurts."

Despite the roughness of a rasp, the way Thatcher looks at Jesse- like a little child looks to their parents to make a boo-boo or illness all better- causes a pang in Jesse's heart. "I know kid," he sooths in his best soft parental voice kneeling down beside him. "but it'll be okay. You just got to hold tight."

The soft, soothing tone lulls the boy, a small nod of agreement flashes before heavy lids close again. Deep chocolate eyes flash up to Fiona, as he climbs to his feet. She stares at Thatcher like he'll disappear the moment she looks away. He always knew something didn't add up with the firecracker of a woman. _Why was it every time the mission involved a kid, she'd become so passionate? What was that something tragic just beneath her skin that only slipped out when she thought nobody was looking?_

The pieces of the mystery that is Fiona Glenanne finally fit together.

He is just about to approach her when he hears the front door burst open, Michael instantaneously scanning the room for threats. His hand was on the gun in his waistband, not entirely sure what his mother's S.O.S. pertains to. Sam stands behind him, already aware of the situation because Madeline sent him to the airport to pick up Michael. He doesn't see Fiona tucked up against the wall right away which gives her a moment to study him.

His arms are more muscular than she remembers; rough hands and a weathered face declaring the last mission had put him through the ringer. The sleek manor that was Michael Westen was replaced by ruggedness, sharpness to his manner that was very unlike him. He is unkempt. Uneven. Harsh. When he finally notices she's there, she sees that even her favorite blue eyes look at her differently. Yes, she expected the lines; aging does that to us all. But it's more than that. There used to be days she thought she could stare into his eyes forever, imagining herself swimming in the cool blue waters of a lake. Now, it seems his inner uproar has frozen that lake. And, passion relinquished its throne to exhaustion.

Maybe change doesn't always mean growth, forward movement. No, this isn't her Michael. Not the image she has retained of him anyway. But, for one split second he grins and her Michael flashes before her eyes. And she can't help but smile at the unchanged memory of him. It doesn't last very long. Reality always kicks in.

"Fi," he says a bit breathlessly before gaining his composure. "What're you doing here?"

A part of her wants to turn back the clock. Reach out and hug him. Pretend the last four years never happened and they were hopelessly in love but she knows better. She knows he chose the C.I.A. over her for the last time and that's something they both have to live with. They just stand there staring at one another like they're the only people in the room… he's still shocked by her presence and she's trying to find the right words for what comes next because the road ahead will be winding and rougher if they can't find a way to move down it together.

It is then that he notices the blood stains on her hands dancing up her arms in a splattering effect. There's also a few smears on her designer tee, causing him to ask, "what..? Whose blood is that?"

Deciding to bite the bullet, she answers, "Our sons."

_Want more of this fic?  
Well there's a little trick.  
All you have to do,  
Is take the time to review._


	2. Connections

**Summary:** Three years post 7x02 Michael Westen returns to Miami with only one thing on his mind, Fiona. But he's not the only one coming home. AU.

**Author's Note:** To be honest, this story was a little outside my comfort zone because the complexity of the characters but once I get an idea in my head, I need to write it. Enjoy and be sure to review if you want me to continue.

**Need to Knows: Read before starting this CHAPTER**

-I tried really hard to hold true to the characters so I hope I don't disappoint.  
-My knowledge about guns is limited.  
-I know before I said that Thatcher had blonde hair but in order to be able to do a tumbler option for everyone I changed his hair color to brown.  
-This chapter isn't very long but is very emotionally draining lol

_.- -" "- -._

{ _"...=-... } {.. .-=..."_}

xTie on Wings  
presents  
The Fallen Apple  
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction

{_.."… … … … … … …""(_}

Chapter Two: Connections

"We cannot live only for ourselves. A thousand fibers connect us with our fellow men; and among those fibers, as sympathetic threads, our actions run as causes, and they come back to us as effects." -Herman Melville

There was a time when the group gathered beneath the roof of the Westen home was a perfect example of this truth. Families, friends, lovers… a thousand fibers connecting them with each other. Before he was burned, Michael Westen saw the significance of connections but never really made any connections without wondering how it'd benefit him and his career; after he'd gone into his latest deep cover mission four years ago, he left WE for ME and reverted to his old ways. He had to pretend solitude suited him but he'd be lying if he said he didn't crave the elusive shift from separation back to oneness which is why standing in this room- with everyone acting as a unit and nobody shocked about the revelation he has a son- Michael felt like more of a lone wolf than ever before.

"Our son's," he repeats still trying to digest the news but the shock only growing upon seeing the boy on the couch. "A teenager?"

Yet another curveball was hurled at Michael and he couldn't help but let denial take hold for a moment. _Maybe he'd drank more years away undercover than he thought. It was all a blur anyways. Maybe he was dreaming..? He's had crazier dreams. Yes! That's it. He's on the plane sleeping away his flight. _Any ridiculous alternative his mind could conjure, he wanted desperately to believe because the truth… The _truth_ made everything between them feel like a _lie_.

But he couldn't argue against the broad European forehead, masculine jaw line, angular features, and perfect cheekbones that screamed Westen. The tight, curt smile that usually was followed up by asking someone for a side-conversation in order to keep a united façade infront of a client laced his lips and he states in a tone any onlooker would have mistaken for asking, "Fiona, could I talk to you in the garage?"

But Fiona knew it wasn't a question.

xXx

While Fiona heads to face off with Michael in the garage, Thatcher faces off with a nightmare of his own and this particular nightmare was the worst kind. The kind of nightmare that's stemmed off a memory- the day he became an orphan.

_Rugged motorcycle boots pounded the darkened soil covered with wilted leaves, broken branches, and aging roots holding statuesque trunks to the ground. Muscular arms guarded his face against fir-needle branches and other leaves that felt like sandpaper and razors, nipping at his flesh as he moved faster and deeper into the forest; his sights set on a blazing inferno in the distance acting as his North Star. Desperation pounded within as he moved, a little voice inside his head cursing him for not being fast enough._

_Before he knows it he's caught up with his North Star and immediately his senses get bombarded: eyes taking in the white-washed building engulfed in a sea of orange-gold flames, the scent of smoke and burning flesh so strong he could taste it, the heat of the flames causing his flesh to tingle, sounds of a dozen people crying for help trapped inside… the closer sounds of a small boy crying. _

_A kid crying…_

_Blue eyes flickered down to the small boy sitting on the ground with his knees pulled up to his chest crying hysterically for his mother. His mother. Now Thatcher's eyes move back to the house where he saw her banging on the windows crying for help. It's a call to arms and he wants so badly to run in there and pull her and anyone else he could out of that hell. But suddenly he stood flash-frozen as the past unspooled and ensnared his feet stopping him from playing white knight. _

_Just as frozen he'd been when he was that kid sitting on the cold hard ground all those years ago. _

_Suddenly an anger pounded in his gut as he let out a roar of monstrous magnitude, "No! God damn it!" Suddenly Thatcher looked down to the younger version of himself. A self-loathing hatred shook through the air as he took out everything he'd held within on himself. "What're you doing? Get up, stop crying, and do something! Anything! Jesus Christ, that's your family in there!"_

_But neither moved just watched as his connections went up in flames. _

xXx

Tension so thick that not even the strongest of knives could cut it soaked the garage as Fiona Glenanne closed the side-door to the garage, keeping both hands on the door and kept her back to Michael as emotions swirled within forming a torrent of terror; the wrath of a mother bear when her cubs been harmed, pain and heartache of the bitter history that led to this moment… the haunting memories, sadness that it took tragedy to reunite them all. There was a reason she never looked back, a reason she kept running and changing… All of it came down to one thing.

Survival.

Because it was like treading water, and the moment she stops, she'll surely drown. But suddenly there's a lighthouse in the distance beckoning to her and all she has to do is rise to the occasion, overcome a few waves and make it to shore. So she turns to Michael knowing that she'll have to face the history she's been running from.

He fires the moment he sees the whites of her eyes, the usually composed Michael Westen's voice getting louder and louder as he speaks, "So funny story, I've been telling people I don't have a son for the past seventeen years and, it turns out, I have. I mean, seventeen years! You've been lying to me for seventeen, God damn years!"

"I wasn't lying to you, Michael," she rationalizes, eyes darting down as she remembers a similar conversation happening between them about a certain ex-fiancé of his. "I just didn't tell you."

"I deserved to know, Fiona," he growls trying his best to hang onto some semblance of composure and failing miserably.

Fiona. The full use of her first name caught her attention but she was too hung up on his claim. He _deserved_ to know. And what did she deserve? Did she deserve to have him leave in the dead of night? Did she deserve him choosing his job over her again and again. No. Neither deserved the hand they'd been dealt but she knew why she'd given him up… why she never told Michael about Thatcher. Because the only person that deserved anything was him.

"All I cared about was what he deserved! He deserved a chance. Two parents to protect him, to care for him, to love him. Two people who would make him the center of their lives."

"We could've been those two people," he shouts, something she'd of mistaken as tears- if it were anyone else- burning in his eyes.

"Look at us, Michael! I'm a gun running ex-IRA member, your and on again off again spy, and a good day for us is one where we're not getting shot at! Thatcher would've been hurt or worse."

"Look at your hands, Fi," he rebuts. "He's hurt now!"

Haunted hazel flickered down to the crimson stains. Her son's blood literally on her hands and sending her mind down an obvious trail… is this my fault? She'd handpicked the couple Thatcher went to, thought she'd made all the right moves in all the right places, but what if she'd missed something. What if the connections she made for him, connected to the large gashes in his side?

No.

She couldn't let herself think like that. In fact, she couldn't let herself go down the trails of what ifs with Michael anymore. What ifs? The answers weren't definite and infinite different scenarios could be pondered on but they never changed a thing. They wouldn't give them the time they couldn't get back. They didn't change past decisions. All they did was cause pain. So she returned to the present.

"We're getting nowhere like this, Michael," she stated in probably the calmest tone that'd been used since they entered the garage. "What matters is he's here. Now. So you can sit here pissed off at me drowning in the past or we could go back into the house and take care of our son."

xXx

Brilliant blue snaps open from behind heavy lids as he jerks into the upright position, heart slamming against his chest and tears burning beneath the blue, the realness of his past sinking in his stomach like a rusty nail. The blanket that covered his over-heated skin was laced with sweat as he eased himself back down onto the couch. It took a moment for his mind to break free from the past and get a foothold in the present but when it did, he couldn't tell which timeframe was a worse hell.

"You okay, kid?" Sam asked being the one on watch because Madeline was taking a phone call from Charlie who'd been away at summer camp.

It took a minute for him to reply but eventually the words slipped from his lips on labored breath, "Yeah. I'm alright Nurse Axe but, would you mind fluffing my pillow for me?"

A small chuckle slipped from Sam's lips as he realized the boy definitely had his father's wit, "Yeah sure thing buddy."

Climbing out of the chair at the boy's bedside, Sam took the pillow into his hands. As he fluffed the pillow, Thatcher sat up with his hand subconsciously running over his chest, feeling the bandages wrapped around him beneath his t-shirt. After letting out a slow breath, Thatcher commented "Ya' seem like a pretty good guy, Sam."

"Thanks, kid. You don't seem so bad yourself."

There's a momentary pause as Sam leaned forward to return the newly fluffed pillow to its place on the couch but before he could shift back upright, he hears the undeniable click of his Beretta 92FS as the hammers being cocked back. "Well then, you might want to learn to read people a bit better."

xXx

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	3. Love is a Battlefield

**Summary:** Three years post 7x02 Michael Westen returns to Miami with only one thing on his mind, Fiona. But he's not the only one coming home. AU.

**Author's Note:** To be honest, this story was a little outside my comfort zone because the complexity of the characters but once I get an idea in my head, I need to write it. Enjoy and be sure to review, favorite, follow, and all that good stuff.

**Need to Knows: Read before starting this CHAPTER**

-As always, I tried really hard to hold true to the characters so I hope I don't disappoint.  
-It was really hard for me to put our favorite heroes in the submissive position but figured finding out you had a son and he was there would definitely take you out of your element and the Burn Notice crew is well known for letting their guard down around children.  
-After reading this chapter you're going to wonder who Tommy is and you'll find out next chapter!  
-Next chapter we'll be diving into character backgrounds so all questions will be answered.  
-I may have gotten a tad bit philosophical at the end so I apologize in advanced.

_.- -" "- -._

(… .(_\.../_)… )

{ _"...=-... }_ _ _ _{.. .-=..."_}

xTie on Wings  
presents  
The Fallen Apple  
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction

{_).."… … … … … … …""(_}

_**Chapter Three: Love is a Battlefield**_

"Love is the battlefield in which reason wages war against passion." –modification of Kahlil Gibran quote

Love is a paradoxical concept. There's many forms, many variations. It's free but priceless. It's beautiful yet ugly, tragic yet euphoric, eternal but fleeting; love is a battlefield where all this could happen at once or not at all. They'd been opposites in love for as long as Michael could remember. She was the _passion_… the shoot first and ask questions later kind of girl, and he was the _reason_… the cold calculating one. Two opposite approaches on the battlefield that battled it out for years as one had to come together facing off with a boy they knew relatively nothing about except that he was their son and that kind of love never dies. Yes, Michael and Fiona knew that they'd stepped onto the battlefield when they entered the room. They just didn't know he'd be bringing an actual weapon to this metaphorical battle… and they certainly didn't think he'd use it.

_Pop!_

xXx  
(_Moments Earlier_)

"'M sorry to pull a gun on ya', Sammy –especially to add the insult of using our own- but I find a man's more willing to talk once properly motivated," the boy rationalized, in a calm cultivated tone that told Sam this wasn't the first time that Thatcher's wielded a gun or held the life of another in his hands.

"Well you definitely have my attention," Sam said eyes flickering down to his gun pressed into his side.

"Being the son of Fiona Glenanne and the Michael Westen is a curse; everything bad in my life always ties back to them which is why this little reunion can only result in World War III. So how about ya' be a good little soldier and stop this war before it starts? All ya' gotta do is let me go. I'll walk out that door and this will all just be nothing more than an unpleasant memory."

"Well you're not giving me of an option now are you?"

Piercing blue tore through Sam as if he was peering into the Sam's soul, reading every aspect of the man. Then, without his eyes leaving Sam, Thatcher rolled the gun in his hand gripping it by the barrel and extended to Sam. Noticing the confusion in Sam's eyes, Thatcher quickly supplied the answer slipping from his lips with ease, "somebody once told me, we choose our own path. Our values, our actions, they define who we are. So, what kind of man would I be if put a bullet in every person that disagrees with me?"

Handing the gun over to Sam was a leap of faith and for someone like Thatcher- someone who's been burned every single time they trust- it was a leap equivalent to jumping the Grand Canyon; but there was something about Sam Axe that made him willing to jump. He gripped the gun gently by the barrel- just enough to keep it steady in his hand until Sam accepted his gracious gift- and waited patiently. He had every intention of handing it over until the sounds of creaking floor boards and footfalls drawing near slammed shut any window he had of clean escape. Then any commitments he made were abolished. Once again he rolled the gun in his hand and he turned towards the intruders putting them in the crosshairs.

xXx

_(present)_

It wasn't that he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun that caused his heart to race a mile a second and tied his stomach in knots. No. It was seeing the man behind the trigger. The first time he'd seen Thatcher moments ago, fast asleep the boy seemed so young. His features softer as he slept, more peaceful, but now he saw staring at the sneer embedded in his features and his eyes… his tired, almost lifeless eyes. They told a story of a lifetime long suffering and even though he didn't know the tale, he knew that look; he saw it in the mirror every morning.

And he knew the rage that currently resided within them was his punishment. It was his fault that the boy standing in front of them was so full of anger, and hatred, and darkness that it even reflected through the stoic façade he was trying so desperately to maintain. He may not have known about the boy but if he'd of stayed, if he didn't choose his job over Fiona that first time, his son wouldn't be ready to shoot him. 'Or maybe he wasn't prepared to shoot him,' he thought as Thatcher's eyes flickered away. And he was right. Thatcher had removed them from his crosshairs.

But he'd placed another inside that dangerous zone.

In one fowl swoop, Thatcher moved behind Sam using him as a barrier- gun pressed against his hostages head, "Looks like you should've taken me up on my offer while you still had the chance. But who knows maybe there's still time for a new deal to be struck." Now he'd completely barred his gaze from Fiona, focusing only on Michael desperately trying to control the demons inside telling him to pull the trigger and eliminate anyone who tried to stop him. At least, as he stared at Michael, Thatcher could stick with just using his words as a weapon. "So whataya' say, _**Da**_? Will you grant the only favor your flesh and blood has ever asked of you and let me go?"

A hostage situation. Michael Westen thought he knew how to deal with any hostage situation but suddenly he felt as helpless as the people he'd helped navigate through situations like these. _Da…Only favor your flesh and blood has ever asked._ Thatcher's words took the form of a thousand hellhounds ready to pounce. No escape. No other options. _Let me go. _Desperate for any other alternative, his eyes flickered down to Fiona who obviously slipped elsewhere, the possibility of letting him go again sent her back to the time she first lost him.

Letting out a submissive huff of air, Michael finally grunted, "Alright, Fine."

"No," Fiona responded at the very same time, a protest that had been swelling in her since the day he left her arms seventeen years ago but had never been voiced until now.

Both Michael and Fiona's attention jerked towards each other, shock and disbelief drowning in a sea of disapproval of one another's answers. It wasn't the first time they'd communicated without words. His eyes tell her they have to do this even if it's the last thing either of them wanted. It was a rational thought to a chaotic situation but he knew Fiona's heart often won in the war waged against her head. So, she turned to her son taking a step out from behind Michael, haunted hazel pleaded with piercing blue to not repeat the past.

"I know you hate me for giving you up, but I know who I gave you up to. Olivia and Liam wouldn't have raised you to shoot an innocent man," Fiona rationalized, unable to accept she'd done wrong by her son again.

"You're right, I wouldn't kill an innocent," he says giving Sam a rough push forward causing him to stumble into Michael's arms. "But Olivia and Liam didn't raise me. They didn't get a chance; died when I was six because of you. And in my book, that makes you far from innocent."

Before she could even process the words, his arm raised, gun pointed straight at her chest. He could see it happen. He could see himself squeezing the trigger, the bullet that resided in the chamber fired, tearing clean through where her heart is supposed to be and taking it like she'd taken his. He could see it and the devil on his shoulder demanded it of him.

But at the last possible second, the angel on his shoulder whispered the most convincing of words.

_Do it and you've become what __**Tommy**__ wanted you to be._

POP!

The once kill shot is now arched out far enough to avoid any major damage but it was still a bullet and that harder-than-rock lead comes splaying out of the metal barrel propelled by the small explosion created with just the squeeze of his index finger. So even though it barely hit her shoulder, it still hurt almost as bad as the fact that it was her son that shot it.

xXx

The hollow echo of the gunshot boomed outward through the house, the sulphur and potassium flash like a crack of a whip, tearing through Fiona's flesh and Michael's soul. As he stared down the barrel of the smoking gun, time slowed down to an agonizing crawl, the bullet altering time and space, tearing away at the flesh of her arm and sending her stumbling backwards. It was as if all the anger and rage he'd still harbored for Fiona's deception slipped through his fingers like water and all that was left was love… and the fear that he'd almost lost it and still might.

"Fi!" he cried shifting past the now steadied Sam and into Fiona's direction.

He wrapped his arms around her as she stumbled back, her face rigid with catatonic terror as they stayed zoomed in on her not-so-innocent little boy. Michael's attention was elsewhere, flashes of holding his dying baby brother in his arms consuming him. His hands shook, body felt numb but yet he didn't let go. Baby blues narrowed in on the way her left hand presses down just below her right shoulder, the crimson liquid oozing out beneath her fingers only causing him to drown deeper in the memories.

"Thatcher," she spoke, her voice a petrified whisper as fear gripped her soul in jagged talons. But it wasn't for reasons that Michael expected.

"No, Michael, Thatcher" she said gripping his shirt and meeting his gaze just long enough to redirect his towards where there son had stood moments before. "He's gone."

And, like that, he'd slipped from their lives just as unexpectedly as he entered. One would even question if he was ever even there. But he was there; the bomber jacket strewn across the back of the couch, Sam's gun left on the floor, the bullet hole in the wall, the blood spilling from Fiona's arm all proof that he was there… and she let him get away, again.

_No._

She takes the pain, physical and emotional, and casts it aside knowing that if she let him go again that'd only be the tip of the iceberg.

"Michael, we have to go after him," she declares pulling herself from the protective arms of Michael.

It was a command with no room for question, but Michael didn't see it that way. It wasn't that he didn't love his son; he did more than he thought he could love anyone in such a short time which was no small feat for Michael Westen. But he was still the voice of reason on their battlefield and the bottom line was they didn't know anything about him so they'd be flying in blind which usually ended in blood shed… hadn't there already been enough? A strong hand reaches out and clasps onto her hand pulling her back before she could get out the door.

"Fi, stop," he directed knowing it wouldn't end well for him.

"Stop?!" she questions disgusted by the suggestion. "Michael, our son—"

"Just shot you!" he declared, his tone sharpened but he didn't shout in order to remain the level-headed one. "I know how badly you want to make things right, Fi, but you don't know what it is you're supposed to be making right."

"You're right," she admitted with tears burning in her eyes. "But unless you can guarantee me that he'll come back, I'm going after him."

_Guarantee?_ Nothing in this world was guaranteed… not even tomorrow. So how was he supposed to look her in the eyes and tell her that their son would come back? Sure he could go into a whole spiel about how if you love something set it free but he knew it wouldn't work and coming from him it'd sound ridiculous. So he does something he swore he'd never do again despite every fiber of his being telling him not to. He lets her go.

As soon as she's gone, Sam draws near to Michael, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder as he asked, "Want me to go keep an eye on her?"

"No, I'll go after Fi, just reach out to your contacts and find out what you can about the O'Connors. I wanna know what happened to my son."

xXx

That casual moment that came with every step- the certainty of steady footedness that came with years upon years of walking- was a feeling Thatcher found solace in as he tried to get his bearings while attempting to outrun the ghosts of his past. Memories of past transgressions- the millions of wrongs that led him to this moment- blurred like lines on a highway, impossible to discern any particular memory from another. Everything was a jumbled heap in his mind, but it all ended with a clear _bang_.

He'd shot his own biological mother.  
He's not certain, but he's pretty sure he'd won his own personal place in hell with that move

"Get it together, O'Connor," he ordered himself aloud realizing how contradictive talking to himself was to the advice.

The past was unchangeable; he couldn't take it back so he had to move on. And he was determined to do just that. First things first, get out of suburbia; keep moving until he is some place secluded and safe. Then call home and find out why someone wants him dead. Slipping his hands into the pockets of stonewashed denim, Thatcher marched down the streets, a soldier on a mission giving a casual glance into each car he passed.

He was a boy made his own man entirely too soon and because of that, his morals were sometime seen as questionable. Sure he tried to do right by his adoptive parents but when you've only been given a basic outline, it's up to you to fill in the details. So he was neither sinner not saint, hero nor villain… just a man who tried to do something they couldn't. Survive.

It was then that he came across a rising phoenix from the ashes of this hellacious day. Some sorry sap left their black 1967 Mustang unlocked. He knew the sanctity of such a beautiful example of American Muscle and leaving her ripe for the taking was blasphemous. Why it was his civic duty to take the vehicle and teach this person a lesson… or at least that's how he rationalized his passion for the Mustang.

A walking contradiction. That's what he was. He constantly maneuvered down the thin line between passion and reason. It was the kind of person he was in life and love and the lack thereof … a lone soldier on the battlefield an ally to all as well as an advisory and a wildcard that was certain to change the way the war was waged for them all.

xXx

_Add fuel to the fire  
And help inspire.  
There's an easy little trick,  
Just take the time and review this fic!_

**Hey Everyone! Again, I'd just like to thank those of you who took the time to read this story. I cannot even begin to explain how much your support and interest in this story means to me! I'd especially like to thank those who took the time to review **** I can't believe how much feedback I'm getting. It's amazing! So I'd like to thank you all by penname because I'm just one of those people who like to thank everyone by name:**

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**Side note: lol the basic consensus was write longer chapters faster and I'm going to try to do just that. I'm hoping to make this a biweekly or weekly thing… I guess it depends on how busy I get with work but I'll do my best. After all, I can't let down my adoring fans ;)**

**Thanks again,  
xTieOnWings **


	4. Becoming the Enemy

**Summary:** Three years post 7x02 Michael Westen returns to Miami with only one thing on his mind, Fiona. But he's not the only one coming home. AU.

**Author's Note:** To be honest, this story was a little outside my comfort zone because the complexity of the characters but once I get an idea in my head, I need to write it. Enjoy and be sure to review, favorite, follow, and all that good stuff.

**Need to Knows: Read before starting this CHAPTER**

-As always, I tried really hard to hold true to the characters so I hope I don't disappoint.  
- Here's your first insight into the OCC Tommy.  
-Sorry it took so long to update. Writer's block is a bitch!

_.- -" "- -._

(… .(_\.../_)… )

{ _"...=-... }_ _ _ _{.. .-=..."_}

xTie on Wings  
presents  
The Fallen Apple  
A Burn Notice Fan-Fiction

{_).."… … … … … … …""(_}

_**Chapter Four: Becoming the Enemy**_

She never expected she'd find her son in a bar like this, never thought he'd ever fall this far from grace but here they were. Stepping into the dimly lit dive bar- and not in the ironically popular kind of dive bar where hipsters gather but a legit hole in the wall- the smell of stale cigarette smoke, beer, and something vaguely reminiscient of piss bombarded her senses churning her stomach almost as much as the sight of Michael Westen slumped against the bar absentmindedly swirling the ice in his whiskey with a plastic stirrer.

In that moment he looked so much like his father that she stood frozen as the realization of her worse nightmares played out before her… because for Madeline when she thought of losing Michael, it was never to death. No she'd lose him to something far worse. She'd lose him to his father. And for a moment, she thought she had but she'd fought too hard and too long to give up so quickly. With a rekindled flame of determination burning brightly, Madeline marched right up to the barstool beside him and took a seat.

"Just a water, thanks," she said to answer the bartender's obvious question as he drew near. She kept her eyes on him then not daring to look at her son because she was attempting to keep composed and resist the urge to wring his neck. "You look like shit."

After a twenty-four hour man hunt- barreling down one cold trail after another aimlessly looking for the boy who knew how to cover his tracks- Michael found himself in a place that reminded him of the holes he'd crawl out of in Mexico in order to keep his cover intact. But now he found he wasn't here because he had to be. He wanted to be, arguably needed to be. So he took his seat and kept his head down, ordering a glass and keeping the bottle, not daring to leave his own little world where it was just him, his thoughts, and the bottle. So her appearance wasn't a welcomed one.

"What're you doing here?" he slurs, his word hummed over lazy lips. Bringing the glass to his mouth, the miserable man swallowed down the contents of his sixth glass… or was it seven. He'd lost count. All he knew was the euphoria.

"That's funny. I could ask you the same thing," she rebuttals ready to strike.

Her mere presence was annoying him like a mosquito attacking warm flesh, buzzing around his ear and pulling him farther from the comfort he desperately craved. He didn't want to fight. He didn't want to think about the son he'd discovered, the stress of returning to the states. He simply wanted to drink away everything that made him feel about the size of an ant.

"Enough," he snarled more venomous than even he realized.

Deep breaths tried to calm her but she knew there was no stopping her now, "No, Michael. Now, I'm not going to pretend that I know what you've been through the past four years or know how difficult all this must be but you need to suck it because Thatcher needs you whether he knows it yet or not."

"He's better off without me," Michael responded.

"Every boy needs their father."

"Is that what you said to justify dad smacking me around my entire childhood? You stuck by him because boys need their father? Give me a break."

It was no secret that the relationship between Michael and his father had residual effects on Michael but for the most part, he suffered in silence, bared the cross mostly for the benefits of her and Nate. It wasn't fair and her heart broke into a million pieces. She wanted to wrap him in her embrace and never let him fall apart. It would have been completely justified but she knew that Thatcher's upbringing was no better and that he faced too many challenges to end… and it would without Michael's help. From her purse, she pulled the manila envelope bursting with files Sam had gathered on Thatcher and slapped it down on the bar in front of him.

"Be a better man than your father, Michael," she ordered with the best maternal command she could muster, "your son's life may very well depend on it."

xXx

Pale moonlight bathed the gravel road, its light casting ghostly shadows across the foliage on either side, the city of Miami left behind a unhallowed echo. Nightfall had been many hours ago, the sun having dipped far beneath the horizon to allow the stars to shine amidst the white halo of moonlight. But life roars through the haunted depths as the purr of the engine and headlights bring light to the darkened depths. Shifting gear, he moved through the sharp turn skidding, hands gripping the wheel slight tighter as he kicked up gravel. Laughter spills scathingly from the backseat as he straightens the Mustang out.

"Something funny?" Thatcher spat, the laughter gutting him like a fish.

"Yeah," Tommy said, this time strikingly somber. "You."

He doesn't want to respond and take the bait again. How'd that old saying go; fool me once shame on you… fool me twice? No. He wasn't going to take the bait but Tommy wasn't going to continue without it. Not a sound comes from the backseat, either. He can feel eyes on the back of his head, a harsh glare boring deep into him. He resists the urge to turn around, to glance in the rearview mirror. Instead, he lets his fingers drum across the steering wheel quietly, tap-tap-tapping their way around it. One minute, two… three before he finally caves asking the question he knew Tommy wanted.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Since you were a boy, every decision, every action has been designed to prepare you to exact your revenge on Fiona Glenanne," Tommy explained, again that laughter dancing through the car, "And after everything, you finally had her in the crosshairs and didn't have the guts to finish the job."

He bites his lip and stares out at the road ahead. The drumming ceases and he grips the steering wheel tighter and tighter until his knuckles turn white as he tries to keep the anger pounding within in check. "Did you ever think that maybe I realized Fiona wasn't worth another second of my time, or maybe, just maybe, I didn't want more blood on my hands?" Thatcher spat, his voice raising octaves as he failed to get his infamous anger in check. "Hell, maybe I realized that I've been so fucking consumed by this whole God damn thing that I almost became..."

Before he could finish the damning statement, he stops and stares blankly out at the road, taking slow, shallow breathes. Trying desperately to compose himself on the outside, because on the inside, he's crumbling into a million little pieces.

"Go ahead kid," Tommy says, his voice pained, breaking, just like Thatcher feels. His foot presses down on the pedal harder and harder until the mustang shakes with speed. He needs to go faster, needs to outrun all the emotions and maybe even the guy in the back seat. Then Tommy continues. You were so consumed by this whole God damn thing that you almost became me. And you wanna know something; you can let Fiona Glenanne live but that's not going to save you. You can't be saved. You can try to change, try to be a better man but one day you'll realize all you have left is echoes of your murderous misdeeds… and eventually, you'll become an echo yourself."

Desperation drives his eyes to the mirror. He has to know. He has to get a good look at Tommy, see him to figure out what he meant by those words. Nobody's in the back seat… just the black leather fabric. He turns his head and stares at the fabric where he sworn the man sat, the devil in his ear. But nobody was there. Gradually his mind catches up fully processing the events that led him here and the meaning of his words.

Until one day you realize all you have left is echoes of your murderous misdeeds and someday you eventually become an echo yourself.

Tommy Fitzgerald was nothing more than an echo, a hallucination of damnation.

Little specks of blurred light danced before his eyes as they strained to take in the stitches that'd popped some time ago. His head spins and spins as he tries to take it all in and suddenly he realized amongst the hazy abyss, he'd not taken his foot off the gas. His attention shoots back to the road but it's too late. The blinding light of headlights beamed into the car he was barreling towards, desperate honks echoing through the air. The wheelman within awakens as the rest of his body begins to shut down and in a desperate moment his hands grip at the wheel and give it an over-exerted jerk sending his car bursting through the metal barricade and into the swamp.

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